by John Shirley
The two slave-soldiers laughed before Kjeljuk turned to his smaller sword-brother and said, “Troamar, take to the woods and make your traps.”
The dark-haired thug nodded and then ran back the way the trio had come to vanish amidst the trees. Borsk picked up the fallen pickax as Kjeljuk walked past him towards the collapsed mine and began to assault the cave-in with a series of thunderous blows.
Borsk walked up behind the mighty Polarian, the heavy pickax feeling good in his hands, his eyes locked on the warrior’s bare back. But before courage could send his arms into motion, Kjeljuk spoke without bothering to turn to look at the barkeep.
“I know what is in your mind; we are alone at last and you finally have something deadly in your hands, but you will find it easier to burry that pickaxe into these stones than into my hide. Or need I remind you of the inquisitor captain?”
“N-n-no, nothing like that at all, I swear it. I was just looking for a place to start digging.” Borsk stammered.
Kjeljuk grunted and the tavern owner could all but hear the smile in the bestial sound. “Next to me, there is no use trying to remove the entire collapse. We just need to clear a path big enough to squeeze through. There’s plenty of earth to move and time is not our ally.”
“Then why not have Troamar aid us? Even with one arm he could help.” Borsk said as he stepped up and swung his pick at the cave-in.
“He will, but we must be sure that the hounds of Yhoundeh you put on our trail do not catch us unawares. Troamar was the scout in our troop. He has eyes like a hawk, the ears of a fox, and can run the woods like a deer. He can also make all manner of deadly traps with just a knife, some wood, and twine. Should the inquisitors come our way, they will meet a nasty surprise before they get too close.”
“The inquisitors know you were making for the Three Pits -”
“Thanks to you.” Kjeljuk interrupted.
Borsk carried on quickly, “They are sure to come here eventually.”
“Yes, but that will take time. When their riders don’t return after a few days, they will send out more, who will spot the carrion-birds where the inquisitors and my brothers fell in battle. If we are lucky then they will think each side killed the other to a man. But luck has been pissing on me lately, so they will probably keep looking for us. Troops will have to muster and then ride back here and then they might make for the Three Pits. I am betting our lives that we can get through this collapse and retrieve the orichalcum before that happens, so less talk and more digging, if you know what is good for you.”
And so the trio dug. It was backbreaking work, something Borsk was not accustomed to, yet he tried his best to hide the fact from the others. The three divided the task by having two men dig while a third rested, this way the excavation never slowed. It was approaching twilight of the next day when Troamar and Borsk finally broke through the wall of rubble to see the darkness beyond.
Kjeljuk was roused from slumber by his excited one-armed companion, and the three men cleared the remaining loose stones and dirt until they made a gap wide enough even for their broad-shouldered leader to squeeze through. Then all three stopped, and while huffing and puffing from their labors, they stared into the benighted mineshaft.
“Borsk, you said you have lived out here all your life. What have you heard about the darkness that killed so many?” Kjeljuk asked, and Borsk realized that it was the first time he had called him by name. It was also the first time the mighty warrior had ever shown concern for what might be waiting for them in the long sealed tunnels.
“No one knows for sure. It happened too fast, and those that got a good look never came out,” Borsk said in whispered reverence, just in case the darkness was listening. “A slave overseer some nights after the slaughter was deep in his cups at my grandfather’s tavern. In between bouts of tears he told my grandfather that it was like the shadows themselves rose up to attack. That’s all he saw, the black of night itself tearing into and ripping apart the diggers under his command. Later when the priests of Yhoundeh came, they told everyone that what befell the mines was a curse of the Sleeper of N’kai.”
“Tsathoggua.” Troamar whispered, which caused Kjeljuk to cuff the man upside his head. Such names were not meant to be spoken aloud, especially when close to an opening to the stygian depths.
Borsk continued, “They said their prayers and rituals had returned the darkness to slumber with their foul lord. That should the darkness awaken again and try to leave the tunnels, they set silver sigils at the mouth of each mine to keep it from escaping.”
Kjeljuk walked back to their camp and donned his thick hide armor and picked up a torch Troamar had made out of a sturdy yuka branch and pine resin. He used a bit of flint to light it, and then hefted his huge battle-axe.
“We didn’t come all this way, lose our brothers, and move half the damn mountainside just to be scared off by the dark.”
Troamar nodded and as he got into his own battle gear, Kjeljuk walked up to Borsk, pulled a long-bladed bronze dagger from his belt, and pressed it into the tavern keeper’s hand.
“Grab a torch, we’ll need the light. You won’t be able to swing a pickaxe one-handed, so use this if any shadow creeps too close.”
Borsk went to get a torch, keeping his questions to himself, like how a dagger would do him any good against living darkness.
Once armed with fire and bronze, the three entered the mine. The air was thick with damp and the smell of the rotting timber and raw earth was pervasive. None of the three wanted to be the first to break the oppressive silence so they moved without speaking, following a well-worn trail made by heavily laden mine carts. There were also several thick chains trailing into the darkness on the ground. Presumably each was tied to a cart and at one time had been attached to a winch outside of the mine, of which the looters had seen no-sign.
Inside the mouth of the tunnel there was no evidence of any violence. Tools were stacked neatly in corners next to moldering support beams, and a small mushroom-spotted table held four oil lamps. Whatever fuel they had once held had dried to sludge over the decades.
Eighty paces further into the long-undisturbed darkness, the men saw mining tools scattered about where they had been hastily dropped. There were also dark stains in splatters and streaks on the walls and floor that even Borsk could identify as blood spilt years ago.
“There.” Troamar whispered, breaking the silence at last as he pointed to a nearby cart.
Approaching and using torches to burn away the darkness and cobwebs that shrouded the cart, they saw that it was half filled with chunks of stone that had golden-copper glint of orichalcum running through them.
“The stories be true.” Troamar cracked a yellow grin across his filthy face.
“Looks to be more stone than orichalcum in there,” Borsk said.
“Quiet, orichalcum is orichalcum.” Troamar said, his grin now a scowl.
“Quiet, both of you,” Kjeljuk said, keeping his voice low. “Let us follow those chains and hope the other carts bear more treasure.”
“Shouldn’t we pull this one out first?” Borsk asked while his eyes returned to the crimson stains on the walls.
“Then come all this way in again for more? No, we keep going, find all that we can, and then we pull the best carts up. Now come on, this place is not getting any more pleasant.” Kjeljuk led the way deeper into the earth. Troamar followed with a bit more spring in his step than before; obviously his fears were overshadowed by thoughts of riches. Borsk, not wanting to be left in the dark alone, had no choice but to follow.
Down, down, down the three went, passing more red stains without comment, stopping only to inspect other carts as they came to them. Some of the small wagons were empty, but most were filled to varying heights with orichalcum and stone. The best chunks, those that glinted the brightest with orichalcum’s golden-copper color, Kjeljuk gathered. He placed them in the hide bundle that once held the digging tools that he had slung over one of his broad shoulders.
Troamar was remarking for the fourth time that they were going to be rich while Kjeljuk kept a watchful eye on the shadows all around them, lest one begin to slither and shift with no aid from their sputtering torches. That’s when Borsk had a realization.
“Where are all the bones?”
“What?” Troamar asked through his grin.
“We’ve found blood, but no bones. If well over a hundred men died down here, what happened to their bodies?”
“Rats must have taken the bones,” Kjeljuk said.
“What? That’s --” Borsk began, but shut his mouth with a click of his teeth when he saw Kjeljuk’s eyes blazing at him.
“I said it was rats. If it was anything else, what good does it do to think about it?”
“So now can we start back to the surface?” Borsk asked. “Our torches are burning low, and we’ve found much orichalcum in these carts.”
“Besides what I have picked up, we have found only scraps. The remains of already bled-dry orichalcum veins. Mine tunnels grow to reach new, richer veins and so the best pieces, the ones that will be more orichalcum and less useless stone, will be deeper down.” Kjeljuk pointed to the five remaining chains that went deeper into the mine. “We follow those and we will find what we came for. Most of these carts here are not worth the effort of pulling up.”
Troamar readily agreed, and since Borsk didn’t get a vote, the matter was settled.
Deeper they delved, and the mineshaft grew warmer with each step, while an oppressive fungal stench overpowered all other odors. That warmth quickly became a stifling heat that had each man sweating and wishing they’d had the foresight to bring water.
And then there were the sounds.
There were whispers in the deeper dark. Not words, not voices, just faint rustlings, creeping, secretive noises, and they came from all around them.
“Are you hearing this?” Borsk whined.
Kjeljuk shushed him. His head cocked to one side like a wolf’s, straining to listen to the muttering dark, as if trying to make sense of the whispers.
“Another cart,” Troamar said, and went to investigate it.
Thankfully, the next few things, as terrible as they were, happened very fast.
“We need to leave.” Kjeljuk said, perhaps hearing something in the faint sounds he didn’t like.
Troamar ignored him and reached the mine cart. Inside he did not find stone and orichalcum, but the dull ivory of bones. The cart was filled with them, more than what half a dozen men could account for. Then from the gaps between ribs, femurs, skulls, and vertebrae, a darkness slithered forth. It coalesced and rose out of the cart to confront the intruder.
The thing from the cart was like the moonless night given form. It was an absolute blackness that flowed like water, yet it mocked the pull of gravity and rose up like an ebony serpent. It was obviously alive and could sense the one-armed man in front of it though it had no eyes, ears, or any other features. Many thin tendrils budded out of its fluid mass and elongated to a length longer than Kjeljuk was tall. They whipped around, swooshing and cracking through the hot, still air.
Kjeljuk dropped his torch, his bundle of orichalcum, and pulled his great axe from his back.
Borsk was motionless, a scream caught in his throat, his eyes wide with shock.
Troamar took a step back from the horror in the cart and let loose a womanly scream.
The darkness reached for Troamar with a number of its tendrils and the southern savage swung his torch to keep the beast at bay. Several black coils shot forth and pierced the soldier’s body like spears. When they burst out of his back, they slithered towards each other, merged together, and made a lattice running through Troamar that he had no chance of escaping.
Kjeljuk swung his mighty axe and bellowed in rage. The heavy, notched blade cleaved through the writhing shadow as if it was water. One part of the darkness fell back into the cart while the other fell with Troamar to topple onto the tunnel floor.
Borsk saw more shadows slither into the flickering torchlight, moving out of the darkness all around them and flowing towards the pair of warriors. He wanted to shout a warning, but only a pitiful squeak escaped his trembling lips. He felt his bladder let go and he took several steps backwards until he hit the tunnel wall behind him.
Kjeljuk grabbed his sword-brother’s arm and started to drag him back but the black horror in the cart was quicker. It surged out and reunited itself with the part of its formless body that still ran through the bleeding, weeping warrior.
“Kjeljuk, behind you!” Borsk screamed, finding his voice at last as another shadow rose up behind the giant man to more than equal his height.
Kjeljuk dropped Troamar’s arm, grabbed his axe with both hands, turned and swung the weapon in a sweeping arc. Once again he cleaved a shadow in twain.
And once again it did little good, as both parts of the ebony nightmare quickly flowed back together.
Borsk watched through wide eyes as Troamar was dragged away into the darkness by the obsidian coil. The man was no longer screaming, as gouts of living, writhing blackness emerged out of his mouth and nose in place of breath.
Kjeljuk took only a moment to look around before reaching down to pick up the dropped bundle of orichalcum. He then spun on his heel, ran to Borsk, grabbed the smaller man by the shoulder, turned him round to face back the way they came, and shoved him forward with a mighty bellow of, “Run, fool!”
The giant’s command got through to Borsk’s fear-addled mind and the barkeep ran faster than he had ever run before. Kjeljuk stayed close on his heels, as Borsk held their only remaining torch, and kept telling him to go, go, go.
While neither man dared glance behind them, they both heard the strange whispering sounds following them as they ran up mineshaft. Borsk kept his eyes cast down at the cart chains on the ground, focusing on them, using them not only as a guide, but something to fixate on to block out the horrors that pursued him.
Just follow the chains, follow the chains, follow the chains, he said to himself.
The two ran in silence, their pounding feet, huffing breath, and the sinister whispers the only sounds. The chase continued for an unknown time and while the lungs of each man burned and their legs grew heavy, neither slowed a step.
“I… I Heard them…” Kjeljuk said, after a stretch of time and in between panting breaths.
“What?” Borsk grunted. In doing so, he lifted his eyes from the chains on the ground and saw that the mouth of the mine fast approaching. The dull gray daylight beyond had never looked so glorious.
“I heard them whisper… they were…” The northern giant huffed out. As if giving voice to the nightmare that had befallen them would somehow have it make more sense.
Borsk didn’t want to know what the cursed shadows had been whispering. They were within fifty paces of freedom and putting this horror behind them. All Borsk wanted to do was to go home, drink plenty of his watered-down ale, and forget about the damn Pits forever.
But Kjeljuk continued.
“They said His name. Over… and over again… they were whispering of the Sleeper of --”
Kjeljuk was interrupted when one of the slithering shadows wrapped itself around his leg. The large man tripped and hit the ground hard enough to cause his jaws to clack together with his tongue between them. An inch of the warrior’s tongue was bit off, so when brave Kjeljuk tried to scream, only gurgles escaped his red lips.
Borsk heard the big man fall behind him and the gargled pleas that followed, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t even spare a backward glance. He was less than thirty strides from the mouth of the tunnel, and that was all he cared about.
The barkeep burst out of the mine with a triumphant smile on his face. He made sure that he crossed the line of silver carved into the ground before allowing himself to collapse in an exhausted heap. There the man stayed, lying prostrate on the naked earth, his hot cheek pressed against the cool ground, arms and legs stret
ched out motionless. He gulped in air to soothe his burning lungs as tears made trails across his filthy face. Only now that he was out of the Pit, now that he was safe, did the whole measure of the terror he had experienced come crashing down upon him. So for a long stretch of time Borsk could only tremble and cry in the dirt.
When the tears finally stopped and the fire in his lungs was quenched, Borsk stood and looked back at the yawning mouth of the tunnel behind him. The fear he had felt just moments before was now replaced by guilt. Sure, Kjeljuk and Troamar had taken him to this hellish place against his will. Yes, they were both no doubt killers of many men. But the Polarian barbarian did save his life when he peeled Borsk’s paralyzed body off the tunnel wall and got him running for the exit. He didn’t have to do that, or so Borsk thought, and the small man was at a loss to understand why the warrior would do such a thing.
He needed your torch to light the way, a part of Borsk’s mind reasoned. He couldn’t carry it, his axe, and his bundle of orichalcum all at once.
No, a louder voice in Borsk’s head chastised him. Kjeljuk saved your miserable life and you left him behind without a thought.
“What could I do?” he cried aloud. The cold hillside gave no answer, but the shriveled suvana pit that was his conscience did.
You must see, at least, if he is dead. You owe him that much for saving your hide. If anyone could fight free of that darkness, it would be Kjeljuk.
“No, no, no,” Borsk whispered to himself, at the same time picking up his dropped torch and slowly approached the mine. He hesitated before stepping over the silver barrier the priests of Yhoundeh had carved generations ago into the hilltop and peered into the darkened mineshaft.
“Kjeljuk? Kjeljuk you there? Do you yet live?”
There was no answer.
“Kjeljuk, please answer. I am… I am sorry. I was afraid and…”
Borsk silenced himself when he saw movement in the shadows of the mine. He took a step backwards, ready to turn and run, when he recognized the hulking silhouette.
